


go gentle into that good fight

by Tiny_Dragongirl



Series: French Kissing [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, Friends to Lovers, Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 18:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiny_Dragongirl/pseuds/Tiny_Dragongirl
Summary: Tréville and Richelieu, well-trained agents of the Musketeers (the French version of Kingsman), saving each other, casually holding hands.





	go gentle into that good fight

“Welcome to Musketeers, Tréville.”

It starts like this.

By the time Jean could fully comprehend what’s happening to him, he’s already joined a secret service where the agents get their aliases from the classics—for example, his mentor goes by the name of Jean Valjean. Which is extremely confusing, in Jean’s opinion, and not a practical code-name at all.

Or, he bumps into a thin, pale guy who turns out to be Richelieu. (_Now, _ that’s _ better, _Jean thinks.) Also, snarls like Dumas’ Richelieu did so.

“Watch out, newbie.”

What a warm welcome— and it’s only the beginning.

In spite of his youth, Richelieu is the main tech guy of the organization, which means that they brush shoulders quite often, so to speak, on their way to missions and back. Jean has a hard time learning to trust him with his life as Richelieu keeps eyeing him like he was a bug to be crushed under his boots—not exactly the way your ally should be looking at you, right?

“Don’t mind him. I guess it just comes with the package,” Javert shrugs. “He might not be friendly but he is excellent at his job.”

How comforting.

  
  


“_The alarm is still active in the last room._”

It’s Tréville’s first solo mission and Richelieu is his handler. A jolly good company whispering into his ear, hurray.

“I thought you disengaged it!”

“_I disengaged ninety percent of it, still working on the rest._”

“Yeah, no rush, it’s not like my life is at stake or anything.”

“_Stop whining, Tréville._” A pause. “_Go back to the corner, turn right, go three meters. There’s a storeroom where you can hide._”

“A storeroom, bloody hell!” Tréville swears. “What is it, some cheap spy fiction?”

“_Or you can stay where you are and wait out in the open while I— _”

“Okay, okay.”

Just the very moment when Tréville, cursing under his breath, sneaks himself into the empty storeroom, closing the door behind himself, Richelieu’s self-satisfied yell pierces his eardrums,

“_Gotcha! All safe to go _.”

So much for working in perfect tandem.

  
  


If he should pinpoint a moment when things started changing for them, Jean would choose the night when he stole Richelieu’s favourite spot.

It goes like this.

Apparently, Musketeers agents believe in Christmas parties, which is nice—for a while at least. Then Jean needs some fresh air and decides to go to such lengths as going out onto the rooftop. A glass of cognac in his hand, the smell of snow in the air, the lights of Paris in front of him, what else could he—

“That’s my spot.”

Richelieu has been wearing a ridiculously good-looking red sweater all evening and Jean notices that he hasn’t bothered to put on a coat. If he wants to catch a cold, Jean won’t stop him, although it will be quite tiresome listening to his orders barked through his clogged sinuses. (It’s hard to believe that self-important Richelieu would stay away from a mission due to a sore throat.)

“I didn’t notice the brass plaque with your name on it. Wait, because there isn’t one.”

“Very funny, Tréville.”

“We aren’t on a mission, you know. You can call me Jean.” Now a thought strikes him. “And if there was a brass plaque, what name would be written on it?”

“Armand.”

“Arrrr-mand,” Jean rolls the name on his tongue, trying it, tasting it. “Armand’s thinking spot?”

Richelieu (Armand? Jean can’t decide yet) shrugs. A minor feedback but hey, at least not complete ignorance.

“Cognac?”

“No, thanks, I think I’ve had enough.” The ‘_So did you._’ is left unspoken.

“You don’t like parties, huh?”

“I know the importance of mingling, but I might value an old axiom even more.”

“Which is?”

“Every man is an island.”

  
Jean snorts and downs the rest of his cognac. “Maybe, but sometimes there are visitors.” From the corner of his eye, he catches Armand (ohh, fine, he definitely looks like an Armand) raise an eyebrow. “What? Are you surprised that I had a ticket for your train of metaphor?”

“Don’t overdo it.” But Jean detects a small smile playing around his lips.

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  
  


“Although red looks awfully good on you, I hope that’s not your blood.”

“Thank you for your concern, Tréville. I can take care of myself.”

Jean takes a sip from his flask. This mission turned out to be quite the bloodbath.

“Then it’s time to head home.”

If Richelieu raises an eyebrow at the word choice, _ home_, he doesn’t comment on it. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  
  


There are days when Jean feels he can’t deal with this job, this world, this life, so takes the matter (a bottle) in hand and tries to chase (drink) his sorrows away.

  
  


They aren’t new to the job but almost getting blown up still comes as a shocking experience. At least this time they are only covered in dust, not in someone else’s innards, but alas, that was a close one. Tréville isn’t trembling—Jean is. Armand doesn’t look any better, ghastly pale and barely holding together his composure.

“Want to…?” Jean reaches out for his hand but Armand flinches back.

“Nah, grown-up men don’t hold hands.”

  
  


_ This job comes with an awful lot of running, _ Tréville thinks while turns another corner, on the brink of panting and wheezing because he might be a fit man but this has been going on far too long now. _ Or maybe I’m doing something wrong. _

“_I could play you some music if you wanted,_” Armand’s (no, Richelieu’s—it’s a mission, after all) voice fills his ears. “_How about Sting? A gentleman will walk but never run…_”

Tréville only grunts in response; he’s saving all his oxygen for his muscles.

“_Or how about, wise men say only fools rush in? Are you a wise man, Tréville, or a fool?” _

Ohh, Tréville is so going to strangle him when he gets back to headquarters.

  
  


There are days when Jean feels he can’t deal with this job, this world, this life, but he has a tried and true way to mute his distress. And when the muting goes too well? Armand steps in and holds Jean’s head while he retches.

  
  


The whole “grown-up men don’t hold hands” ideology rapidly flies out through the window and dies on the pavement. There are only a limited number of times you can get handcuffed together… tandem jump out of a plane together… get tied together half-naked… drag the other through the remains of a blown-up building ...and still feel awkward about it. After you’ve reached that number, awkwardness just dissipates into thin air.

  
  


“Are we crazy? How this is our life?”

They are sitting on the rooftop, drinking in the sight of Paris—the old dame is making a fashion show of her spring in full-bloom clothes and high-spirited atmosphere.

“You mean, working for a super secret organization that operates under the cover of a Parisian antique bookshop?” Armand frowns. “Well, you’re a man of action, I’m a man of scheming. We love to turn the wheels of the world. Simple as that.”

“Speak for yourself.” Jean rolls his eyes but can’t suppress a smile. Deep in his heart, he knew the answer for his question, he just wanted to hear it from Armand. Maybe he has gotten used to hearing his voice a bit too much.

  
  


There are days when Jean wonders when it became his first thought to reach for Armand’s hand, not for the bottle, when he feels anxiety creeping upon him.

  
  


Once again, Tréville seems to have painted himself in a corner as there is only one way out of the room but three men stand between him and said way-out. On the bright side, they hold machetes, not guns or explosives. On the downside, Tréville has a rapier in one hand, a dagger in the other, and that’s all. He has obviously come under-dressed for the rendezvous.

Tréville braces himself. This is going to be messy. And bloody.

The men slowly start closing their half-circle around him. It’s all about timing, really. You move in the wrong rhythm and you find yourself stabbed in sensitive places. Ouch. It’s all about—

BANG!

The door leaves its frame with a bang and one man’s life ends with a whimper. Later Tréville will laugh at himself for this thought but Richelieu, standing on the threshold, looks like an avenging angel. Well, an angel with a gun instead of the classic flaming sword, but still. Even with the minor scratches and… is that an open wound in his side?!

Tréville uses their freshly gained advantage (the element of surprise is such a classic move) to stab the man closest to him. Hard. Let him feel it in the mouth.

And he’d kill the last man standing— if only Richelieu didn’t beat him to it.

“There you are.” Richelieu sounds oddly relieved for someone with a bleeding wound in his side.

“Took your time.”

Richelieu snorts but holds out a hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  
  


Years into the service and yet, Jean never got accustomed to the official Christmas parties. Chatting with a glass of apple juice in hand feels almost nice and the baked goods taste really good, but still— There is something uncomfortable in witnessing Armand getting stuck with Jean’s former mentor, Gérard (code-name: Jean Valjean) under a mistletoe. The sight makes Jean’s skin prickle and he feels his stomach twisting into a knot. It is, clearly, a reaction to Armand’s visible discomfort, and it’s understandable—after all, there is a fine line between holding your colleague’s hand and kissing them on the mouth.

In the end, Armand escapes the situation with a peck on his forehead. _ Well, that’s one way to solve this problem, _ Jean thinks and carefully avoids any and all mistletoe.

  
  


When Richelieu is officially declared “missing in action”, Tréville volunteers to search for him—even if it means going as far as he can push himself, and even further. Because for whom should he push his own limits if not for him? Otherwise he’d have to get used to never again hearing Richelieu’s voice in his ear, giving orders or making sarcastic comments. Not to mention their rooftop conversations… Just when Armand gave in and decided to share his spot with Jean, he goes missing?! How rude.

In the end, Tréville doesn’t have to go too far, as he finds Richelieu in the hands of the Spanish mob. He is paper-thin and pale like a ghost, but he’s alive, which is quite a miracle after he has been held prisoner for two months. Surely, his captors couldn’t have been so naive to expect some reward for him.

Well, they got their reward—bullets into their chests. From Tréville, with love.

“Vacation is over.”

Jean grins to hide the trembling of his lips, and Armand sends him back a smile that was more like a grimace.

“I knew you’d be the one spoiling my fun.” His voice sounds hoarse and weak, and Jean wants to punch a wall. Or, preferably, a Spanish mobster. If there was any left.

“Can you walk or should I carry your bony butt?”

“My dignity is in a big fist-fight with my inner child right now. I mean, you don’t get an offer like that every day, so the temptation is huge.”

Jean can’t help but laugh at this—and suddenly realises that he hasn’t laughed in two months.

  
  


Spain stays with them in the form of nightmares. By the time he is released from the infirmary, Armand learns again to fall asleep without holding Jean’s hand, which fills Jean with relief and an odd sense of loss.

  
  


“This is nice.”

“Mhm.”

They’re on the rooftop, enjoying the summer breeze—Armand leaning back, eyes half-lidded; Jean watching him from the corner of his eyes. The sight couldn’t be more peaceful and yet, the temptation to reach out and place his hand on Armand’s scarred, still too thin hand is strong. Jean stomps it down, not wanting to ruin the moment.

Minutes pass in silence. Armand is the first to break it, muttering,

“Missed our spot.”

A half-smile appears on Jean’s face. “Even though you have to share it with me?”

“Clearly, it’s nothing like my own cell where I could have rotten to death but— You know, the view is much better.”

One day Jean will learn to make jokes about those two months. One day.

  
  


Even though both of them are still perfectly fit for service, the years start leaving their traces on them. While Armand occasionally suffers from headaches, Jean feels that his stomach is more irritable than it used to be. Apparently, if you manage to avoid falling in the line of duty at the peak of your youth, your dubious reward is getting to grow old.

  
  


Savoy costs them half the organization. The communication directors, Jolivet and Blount, are gone. Their best agents, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, are dead. Their old mentors, Javert and Jean Valjean are gone. And the others… They are all dead.

Twenty men are dead.

Jean thinks that Tréville and Richelieu are to blame, and no hand-holding can lift that burden off of him. What’s worse, they did their duty when they sealed that door and pushed that button. If they had done differently, it would have cost them more, wouldn’t it? Sacrificing twenty men wasn’t the worst possible scenario—and yet, Jean can’t help but blame Armand and himself.

  
  


After Savoy, their relationship is strained, so to speak, especially when Armand’s candidate doesn’t make the grade but Jean’s does. His protegé becomes the new Athos in this new, younger generation of agents.

  
  


“Tréville, are you going to talk to Athos or should I do it myself?”

“Armand, the mission’s long over, you can drop the aliases.” Jean sighs. “And why on Earth do you think that we should talk to him this time?”

“Because he’s unfit for this job—especially when it comes to following orders.”

Jean grits his teeth but wills himself to calm down. This is about the twentieth talk they are having about Athos; he won’t lose his patience now.

“His method may have been unique, so to speak, but the mission was a success—”

“Unique? And a success? Do I hear you right?”

“Yes, unique,” Jean repeats, frustration bubbling in his stomach like lava. “So what, are you jealous?”

Armand snorts. “Of what? A newbie half my age? An agent who can’t obey a direct order?”

After counting to ten, Jean tries again. “Listen, I know that you were the handler—”

“I’m familiar with the roles we play.”

“As I was saying, you were our handler but we were on the field, doing the actual running around, risking our lives thing, and sometimes that means that we have to make adjustments to save our necks. You can’t possibly foresee everything that’s about to happen—”

“So that’s it. I’m not doing enough, how did you phrase it, running around? I’m not risking my life because all I do is sit back and operate from my safe little corner during the whole mission. Which isn’t an easy job, thank you very much, when the agents who are my responsibility keep questioning my orders and decisions.” Armand’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and his eyes are shooting fire. “But yes, let’s put the blame on me! Maybe I’m not good enough. All those times I did my best, trying to keep you safe, it just wasn’t enough for you. That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it? That I’m not good enough—”

Jean can’t remember when he clenched his hands into fists, he only notices his right fist flying forward and punching Armand in the face.

  
  


Richelieu points a gun at him, pulls the trigger and Tréville instinctively ducks. A shot rings in the air and the assassin behind him drops dead. Richelieu is at Tréville’s side in two long steps, carefully sending another bullet into the already unmoving body.

“Wow” Jean croaks. “That was… impressive.” He feels Armand’s fingers curl around his hand and hurries to assure him, “I’m okay.”

“I’m not.”

_ Not the first man you killed, _ Jean wants to say but instead he just presses Armand’s hand gently.

  
  


When D’Artagnan is killed on a mission, his son takes up his mantle._ After all, Musketeers is like a big family, _Jean thinks. Very big and very weird, but a family, in its own way.

  
  


“It may sound strange coming from her mentor, but I’m not sure the new Milday’s future lies within the service.”

“Constance has been with us for a year and her improvement is visible, day by day,” Jean debates. “She is going to be a great agent one day.”

“She brings instability. Athos and D’Artagnan,” (_Not again, _ Jean thinks.) “they are both attracted to her, so either they clear this matter up or get swallowed by their own tangle of emotions. Which would be a pity but really, they all should know better. I mean, in our business all things must be done according to reason, without allowing ourselves to be swayed by emotions.”

On an impulse, Jean presses Armand into the wall, hard, and kisses him, equally hard. Or more like, he attacks Armand’s mouth with his mouth, and when Armand tentatively kisses him back, it only fuels Jean’s hunger further. Any other day he could be gentle and sensual but today he’s abating the hunger of long decades and just can’t get enough of Armand.

When he finally pulls back, Jean asks grinning, “Do you feel swayed by emotions?”

His job has strengthened his nerves, he doesn’t panic easily but when Armand doesn’t answer, just stares at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Jean feels anxiety bubbling up hot in his stomach. “Please, tell me I haven’t made a fool out of myself.”

Armand licks his lips, swollen and red.

“No, I’m— It’s— I’m just pleasantly surprised.”

That’s a relief, even if seeing Armand at a loss of words makes Jean blink in surprise.

Finally, it seems that he has found an effective way to shut him up. It’s like punching him on the mouth, but softer, and it leaves a much better aftertaste.

“I’ve always thought it would happen in a different, more dramatic way,” Armand explains, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You losing your shit after I got kidnapped. Me losing it after you got hurt on a mission. Something like that. Provoking you into kissing me didn’t even make it into the ten most possible scenarios.”

Jean licks his lips. Flushed and barely collected, Armand is certainly a sight.

“To be fair, we’ve been provoking each other for more than twenty years.”

“So? Shall I provoke you further to make you keep doing what you did?”

  
  


When Milady begins a polyamorous relationship with Athos and D’Artagnan, and it seems to be perfectly functioning, Jean repeats “told you so” until Armand finds a creative way to shut him up.

  
  


“I’m more a man of action rather than a man of words but I want you to know, if you want to talk about our relationship, I’m ready.”

It’s one of their rooftop moments—they’re enjoying the last sunny days of September before the cold rains of autumn chase them into the warmth of their room. Of course, Armand forgot to put on a coat but Jean lent him his jacket so he doesn’t have to shiver in the red sweater that still looks absurdly good on him.

“Why? What’s there to talk about? It’s been a healthy and functioning relationship for years, we only added intimacy into the equation. You’re still my best friend and most trusted colleague,” Armand says as it was the most natural thing in the world and suddenly Jean finds that he feels warm even without his jacket.

  
  


In public, they don’t show signs of affection. (Hand-holding doesn’t count, they both agree on that.) Only once are they caught by Constance, but later Armand points out that you don’t have to be a superspy to catch two once-in-a-lifetime careless people. Not that they want to keep their relationship a secret or anything, but they should have known that the library is not the most ideal place for French kissing.

  


“It’s a miracle that we managed to grow old at all.”

“Who is old? You’re old.” Jean pokes his lover between his ribs. “‘Seriously, it only shows that we are really good.”

Armand scoffs but Jean can feel him smile against his neck. “At what?”

“At saving each other.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [flannelgiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelgiraffe/pseuds/flannelgiraffe). Thank you!


End file.
